Back on terra urbana

Touched down last night in the People’s Republic of East Van, after six months on Cortes Island. And everything is exactly the same, except for me.

I wake up on my old futon at 6am, to sounds of muted orgasm, distant alarm clock chimes, and the rasping chorus of westbound crows. My apartment is clean and empty, an almost-blank slate begging to be wiped clean.Â I don’t really need those clothes or those books, time to minimize again, purge and erase. And what the hell is in the storage locker anyway? And then there are these odd remnants of various subletters â€“ a nice mug, some weird condiments, a bunch of pillows. And didn’t I have a few more lamps, and a table and a spatula? Things come, things go.

It is a bit disconcerting. The cars, the sidewalks, the grown men without beards. My nose reacts against the smell of disinfectant and gasoline. Did the water always taste like that? Surely it didn’t smell like that. But this city, this city, it is so beautiful. The crows as ever, on their daily commute. And the people on the street, seem more open than i remembered, more bright-eyed and crisp around the edges. Same people but different. Or maybe it’s just me.